


Drowning

by Kitcat300



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Flynn and angst, Post Season 2, christmas isn't cannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28108713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitcat300/pseuds/Kitcat300
Summary: Flynn has a decision to make but he's struggling.From a prompt based on Jesse McCartney's 'Right Back in the Water'
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lyndsayluhu for the prompt. Hope you enjoy it.

It was time to go. Past time.

They’d put the final nail in Rittenhouse’s coffin and short of sitting round to watch the fireworks Flynn had achieved everything – almost everything – he’d intended. All he had to do was put what little possessions he owned into the ruck sack and then, poof, he’d be gone. So why couldn’t he do more than stare at the rolled and ready garments?

Survivor’s guilt, he tried to tell himself. They’d lost so much. He’d lost so much.

No Lorena. No Iris. No way to bring them back without snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Hadn’t he always know that though? In the back of his head? Hadn’t he felt the loss so deep in his bones there could be no possible recovery?

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps the guilt would drown him. But it wasn’t why he couldn’t pack up and walk away.

If he stayed Denise would have him back in maximum security before day’s end. Help or no, he’d known where he stood. She’d always been very clear on this. He respected that. If he walked out the door though… 

Wanted terrorist. It wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t like he hadn’t made provision for just such an eventuality. Cuba for a year. Peru. A slow boat to Africa. A leisurely route back into the Eastern European block. He’d see home again before he closed his eyes for the final time.

Still he stared at the monotone items waiting on the bed.

Would it be better if he took the burgundy turtleneck? He could get it back. Slip through the door while the others were drinking and laughing and crying. Lucy kept it tucked under the makeshift bookcase in her room. His former room. Briefly, their room.

Fisting the closest item Flynn thrust it to the bottom of the bag. Mistreated another. Went to screw up a third.

Lucy.

It always came back to Lucy.

At first he’d thought it was Lucy with the long hair and the journal, who’d poured herself a shot from his bottle and proceeded to destroy what was left of him as she told him about Mason Industries and a time machine. He’d quickly overlaid that Lucy with the one from the journal. Images of the first, words from the second. His very own Lucy construct. That bubble had burst within minutes of meeting the real Lucy Preston, all aglow in the bonfire of the Hindenburg.

Later he’d laugh as he remembered himself telling her he knew who she really was, who she was meant to be. Dear God. He’d never had a clue.

The other Lucy, the one who’d bent time to hand over a new journal, had no clue either. He wasn’t sure how that was possible but he knew it as instinctively as he knew how to draw breath. That Lucy was a fighter. A warrior. She was built for nothing but destruction, all the good beaten out of her. His Lucy, no, not his Lucy. This Lucy? The real Lucy. She was tough, tougher than she knew. She could fight if she had to. Make the choices that needed to be made. But her actions were driven by her heart no matter how raw or bloodied.

As ever his mind drew him back to the warehouse. Lucy battered and broken on the floor. Everything fractured. The sound of gunshots loud in his ears. If he still had one he’d have sold his soul to spare her that. His soul was, after all, black enough for the both of them. His chest throbbed in sympathy. The scar just one more for the collection. 

It was time to go. He had to go.

“Were you planning on saying goodbye?”

Her voice pierced him and he closed his eyes, whether to savour the sound or despair he couldn’t say. 

Five minutes. That’s all it should have taken. He could be miles away by now. Instead…

“You know me better than that.” Although he’d planned a letter, not a face to face.

“Why?”

He had to turn even though he knew it was a mistake. Had to see her one last time. Capture her as she stood, arms crossed leaning back against the door as though she could stop him with sheer bulk. What she lacked in size she made up for in determination.

“Lucy…” He wanted to say her name for a lifetime. Wanted … too much.

“Denise will change her mind. She’s already half way there.”

He turned back to the bag. Grabbed whatever was closest. Refrained from punching it into the waiting sack. “I’m not worried about incarceration.”

“Then stay.” Her words felt like a physical touch.

It would be so easy to do as she asked. God knows he wanted to. Wanted to turn around and sweep her into his arms. Wanted her words to mean more than they did.

But. “It’s not a good idea.”

He didn’t have to look to see the pain in her eyes, the hollow sadness that had haunted her since Rufus died. Even with his return it was still there, lurking. Ever ready to lay her low.

The muscles in his back, his legs, his arms locked to stop him turning to her as she remained silent. Why couldn’t she understand? She was so perceptive, too perceptive, in everything. Why not now?

“It’s better if I go.” The words hurt.

“For who?”

This was why he’d written the letter. He wasn’t supposed to have to explain it out loud. “Trust me Lucy-”

“Better for you? Rufus? Jiya? Connor? Denise?” She cut through him, anger edging her tone. “Because it sure as hell isn’t better for me.”

 _Oh Lucy._

“If I stay it would only cause trouble.” She knew that. She had to know that. Her raised eyebrow suggested that she didn’t. “Wyatt isn’t exactly my biggest fan.” That should be all the explanation she needed. 

“No-one’s asking him to be.” 

Apparently not. This wasn’t the way he’d wanted it to go. Why hadn’t he gone when he had the chance? 

“I heard you in the corridor.” At her blank look, “After Rufus died.”

It was easy to see it rush over her again, the churn of emotion he wanted to wipe away. His arms ached to hold her. To comfort. But it wasn’t his place, wasn’t what she wanted.

“Things will be easier for you … and Wyatt … if I’m not here.”

She watched him. Kept watching him. He should turn. Break the contact. Grab the bag and go. He didn’t really need the clothes.

“Wyatt told me he loved me.”

Drips of acid burnt his heart.

“After Hollywood. When Jessica showed up. I thought,” she struggled for words, “I thought that’s what I wanted from him. Then we were sat on the floor and Rufus was dead and the words didn’t … I couldn’t …”

He stepped forwards before he could stop himself, willing his hands back to his side. “You were overwrought with grief.” Which made Wyatt’s timing reprehensible (especially coming on top of his plea only hours earlier for the life of his wife and unborn child). “Things are different now. With Rufus back-”

“I keep seeing his face when he defended Jessica.” She continued as if Flynn hadn’t spoken. “Keep remembering how easy it was for him to leave without a word.”

“Lucy.” It took everything to maintain a distance. One more step and he could touch her. Hold her. Pull her against him and let her cry it out as she had so many times before. Instead, for both their sakes, he reminded, “You’ll forgive him. That’s what love is. Acceptance. Forgiveness.”

“Partnership?”

An odd addition from her but, “Yes.”

She straightened, pushed the hair out of her eyes, spoke so softly he wasn’t sure he heard her right. “Wyatt isn’t my partner.”

What was she trying to do to him? This had to stop. “That’s not what the journal said.”

“Which journal?” 

“The Future’s-”

“Is it what your journal said?” Her voice was stronger, her back straighter.

He wished he’d never seen the infernal thing. No he didn’t. Because if there was no journal there was no Lucy and that, well, he couldn’t live with that. “No, but-”

“It changes. You said so yourself.” She pushed away from the door. Stepped closer so that her strawberry scent teased his nostrils. He’d never be able to eat the soft fruit again. “Every action we take alters the journals outcome. Nothing is set in stone.”

“That doesn’t mean…”

She took another step so that they were almost nose to nose, or rather nose to chest. How did someone so small contain such a strong will?

“We won but it doesn’t feel like a victory.”

He could hardly breathe. She was so close. She was nowhere near close enough. “No.”

“Everything’s mixed up.”

Another time they could have sat for hours. He could have explained that in some way it always felt like this. That winning the battle outside didn’t change what was inside. Couldn’t undo all that had happened to get to that one point. But he wasn’t staying. His window to leave was closing fast.

Instead he offered, “It takes time Lucy. The end always takes time.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

His finger swept across her cheek. The slightest contact. He couldn’t resist. Not this close to her. He needed one last touch. “You breathe. You take one step and when you don’t fall down you take another until you learn to walk again.” He would have walked with her to the ends of the earth if she’d have let him. He’d have caught her whenever she stumbled.

Her small hand reached out to rest on his chest, above his racing heart. Flynn could control many things but the effect her touch had on him wasn’t one of them. She’d have to make of it what she would.

Lucy swallowed, searched his face, her eyes enormous until finally. “There are only two things I’m sure of right now.” The wait was killing him. “I don’t want Wyatt.” What? “And I don’t want you to go.”

Merciful heaven. How was he supposed to survive this woman? He had to go. It was the only way to save any part of himself but, instead, he sank back on to the bed and looked up at the only person in the world that mattered to him. How could he leave now?

Moving slowly, cautiously, she sat beside him, shuffled closer until she could nudge under his arm. Her head rested where her hand had been, listening to the rhythm of his heart. “I don’t know how to do any of this without you Flynn. You’re part of me. Please stay.”

He could already hear the door closing. His letter would remain unopened, wasted on the blanket. It wasn’t like he could refuse her anything. 

Self-preservation be damned. 


End file.
